


As the Poets Say

by Bardling



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Devotion, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Getting Together, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Inspired by The Song of Achilles, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Magic, Near Death Experiences, No MCD, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Past Torture, Past Violence, Pining, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Tagging as I go, Torture, post-mountain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-20 22:02:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30011613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bardling/pseuds/Bardling
Summary: For many years I thought myself to be invincible. I was young and quick, not yet hardened by the battles that were soon to come. I was a sweet summer child following a man I met at the edge of the world. I was infatuated with him. We were like gods at the dawning of the world, and our joy was so bright we could see nothing else but the other. Or so I thought.As it turned out, it was only I who could see him.But still I ran into danger headfirst without a second thought, armed with nothing but ambition and a sharp tongue. With him by my side, I thought I could do anything. I thought nothing could hurt me.Oh, how wrong I was.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 16





	As the Poets Say

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is something new from me, I'm "dipping my toes in the water" so to speak. I'm currently obsessed with The Song of Achilles, so this is heavily inspired by that! I hope you enjoy reading it :) Comments, Kudos, and constructive criticism are always welcome and appreciated!

The edge of death is not a place many men come back from. One either chooses to jump or he has the choice made for him and is pushed off the cliff into the dark, endless abyss. The edge of death is not what the poets nor the priests describe. It is not darkness. No, it is everything you have ever lived. It is the beginning and the end of time, all at once. It makes your head swim and your heart ache. You cannot see straight, your ears play tricks on you. You feel sick. You are sick. Melitele caresses your face and outstretches her benevolent hand, beckoning you home. 

The edge of death is not a place many men come back from, but I am no man.

For many years I thought myself to be invincible. I was young and quick, not yet hardened by the battles that were soon to come. I was a sweet summer child following a man I met at the edge of the world. I was infatuated with him. We were like gods at the dawning of the world, and our joy was so bright we could see nothing else but the other. Or so I thought.

As it turned out, it was only I who could see him.

But still I ran into danger headfirst without a second thought, armed with nothing but ambition and a sharp tongue. With him by my side, I thought I could do anything. I thought nothing could hurt me.

Oh, how wrong I was. 

The worst pain I experienced was not the concussions, the scrapes, stabs, or even the curses from ancient deities. No, the worst pain was one of the invisible sort. When you devote yourself to someone for so many years, you start to think that they will never leave. You follow him… them, without question. Through rain or shine. No matter who or what might be after you because of their reputation. I was young and dumb and so helplessly in love.

I thought and I begged,  _ please don’t let him leave me. _ But he did, as if the last two decades meant nothing to him. As if I meant nothing to him. The words he spat on that mountain wounded me deeper than any sword, snake, or sorcerer ever had. I suppose it was fitting, in a poetic sort of way. Twenty years is just a blip compared to the long life of a Witcher. A lifetime for many, a season for few. 

_ Will he forget my name as he did all the rest?  _ I wondered, praying to the gods that I meant something,  _ anything  _ to him.  _ Some questions are better left unanswered, _ I told myself as I travelled aimlessly down the mountain; my heart a festering, empty hole in my chest. My journey down felt endless, the world suddenly duller than when we climbed side by side. When he left, all things swift and beautiful left with him.

I did not blame him for my capture. I do not think I could blame him for anything, even if I wanted to. I knew what lied ahead when I chose to devote my life to him. I knew his enemies would become my own and even when we were apart, there would be a target on my back. Even then I did not waver, not even for a second. I would have tolerated anything for him.

And I did. Oh, I did. 

It took a week for them to find out I was no longer  _ his.  _ I laughed as they called me  _ his lark, _ for I never truly belonged to him. My captors did not care much about specifics. They did not care that I had not seen him in a week or that I was nursing a broken heart. No, they wanted me for one thing and one thing only. And they would  _ never  _ get it out of me.

I do not know how many times they have asked me where he is or where he is going. They had been questioning me for hours. They were not taking kindly to my retorts and quips, which was their loss, truly. 

I was bound in a cave so far away from humanity that I was certain it was a place known only to the gods. That was fitting as well, I suppose. No better place to torture a forgotten god than the land of the gods.

Perhaps it was my destiny to be shared by all and remembered by none.

It was cold there, far too cold to be natural. One of them was making it colder to break me, I was sure of it. Normally I would just make myself warmer, but my shackles were engraved with runes as ancient as I. Whoever those people were, they knew what I was and how to subdue the chaos within me. I had no doubt they would kill me if I did not give them what they wanted.

The hunger was easy to ignore at first, as it was overpowered by the chill running from my toes and up through my bones. I could feel myself shaking, the growling of my stomach was simply a background ballad. The ache in my jaw was a pulsing reminder of how painful it would be to chew anyway. Absently, I registered the taste of blood in my mouth. I spat at them, streaking a tattered shirt pink with blood diluted by saliva. They asked me where he was, and again I said nothing.

That was not the first time I had tasted my own blood, but I started to fear that it may be the last.

They could torture me all they wanted. If I had to choose between life and betraying him, I prayed the ground swallow me where I was chained.

I thought of him as their blades pierced my skin. The pain was excruciating, but it was worth it for him. He is the last thing I saw before my vision blacked out. I realized quickly that I was not asleep, at least not entirely. I could hear them speaking, shouting, there was someone on every side of the cave but I could not make out their words. I drifted in and out of a nightmare-like state, dying a thousand painful deaths wishing he would save me. I thought of his face and held on strong.

When my eyes opened, I realized I was covered in my own vomit. Everything was spinning and my lungs burned as if they had never breathed air before. A side effect of stab wounds. I told myself that it was fine and I had experienced worse. I had not. They asked me another question but I could not hear them, my ears were ringing too loudly. Vaguely, I heard my own voice telling them to fuck off. 

I laughed and I am sure it confused them. Of course it did. They had no way of knowing that  _ fuck  _ is his second favorite word. Or that he used to tell me to  _ fuck off  _ as he hid his smile behind a tankard of ale after I told him an awful joke. That was the first trick my eyes played on me. I saw him sitting at a table in the corner across from me, laughing that hearty laugh that I had only seen his brothers pull from him. I was coherent enough to not call out to him. I knew he was not really there. He was not coming to save me. 

Eventually, my captors fell into a routine. One would string me up and ask questions while another poked, sliced, and prodded. They bled me to the brink of death before healing only the fatal wounds and starting over again. After so many hours of that, they dragged me outside to a nearby creek and submerged my head in the flowing water. My throat was raw from screaming and shouting my refusal so many times. There was a constant, dull throbbing in my nose. I knew from experience that it was broken. 

I did not know how long I had been their prisoner. My only gauge of time was how cold it was when they drug me across the rocks and to the creek. There was snow then, but there had been snow before. If I could see, perhaps I could have better inferred what month it was, but they kept me blindfolded. I no longer spoke, for it took more energy than I could spare.

_ Snow _ , I thought as they dragged me back into the cave. Snow means winter, usually. He goes home for the winters. I smiled and I must have looked mad. Kaer Morhen is safe. He was safe and that is all I could have wished for. I pictured myself with him and his brothers, laughing together as the fire crackles in the hearth and someone tells another story. He pulls me closer and nothing hurts. His eyes are the last thing I saw before unconsciousness swallowed me whole for the hundredth time.

My mind played more tricks on me as time went on. I was hearing his voice more often. Sometimes his words would give me the strength to keep going. He told me that I could do it, that I can defeat them. He reminded me of all the times I had won before. He told me not to give up.

Other times, he would call me into the light with his strong hand on my cheek. He would sing the most beautiful song I had ever heard, begging me to join him. He would tell me we can get away. I saw him and he was at the coast. Gods, he is beautiful. His skin is fair and the waves glint in his amber eyes. Blue has always been his color. I took a step closer to him and my whole life flashed before my eyes. Every bad memory, every scraped knee, every concert I have ever performed. 

I shook my head.

“No.” I croaked, because that was not him and I was not ready to let go.

His hair was the last thing I saw before I regained consciousness. I remembered brushing and braiding his hair, the hair that gave him his namesake.  _ Does she braid his hair now?  _ I wondered, hoping my jealousy would fill me with enough spite to stay alive a little bit longer. I could not stay jealous for long. If he was still with her, I hoped he was happy. Happiness is what he deserves, even if he was the source of mine.

_ Perhaps I did not regain consciousness _ , I thought. My eyes were open and though it was dim, I could tell I was not blindfolded. I must have still been sleeping, because they would never have allowed me access to my senses.

I blinked several times, forcing my eyes to adjust to the new light. The first thing I saw was a pair of knees clad in black. I do not know if I tried to move towards or away from them. But the knees lifted, and hands reached down to turn me, gently, over. Geralt was looking down at me.

“I hoped that you would come.” I whispered, but no sound came out. 

Horror shocked my system, flooded every conscious thought and feeling I had. My brain had tricked me for the last time. I was going to die.

_ This cannot be it _ . I thought, clinging desperately to life.

_ Do not let it be so. _ I begged silently.  _ Do not leave me here without him.  _

As if he had heard me, he reached for my hand. I did not need to look; his fingers were etched into my memory, long and sword-weathered, strong and quick and never wrong. He took my hand and squeezed, the most gentle gesture I had ever seen him make. I mustered the last shred of strength I had and squeezed his hand back, as weak as it was. 

Even through the blood loss, tremors and pain, I knew it was really him. I was a fool to think he was another trick.

I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world.

Geralt looked at me and my weak pulse jumped, for no reason I could name. He had looked at me a thousand times, but there was something different in his gaze, an intensity I did not know. My mouth was dry, and I could hear the sound of my throat as I swallowed and tried to speak.

Again, no sound came out.

Geralt wept. He cradled me and would not move or speak a word other than my name. I saw his face as if through water, as a fish sees the sun. His tears fell, but I could not wipe them away. I was too weak to raise my arms. That was my element then, the half-life of the unburied spirit.

I smiled as I felt his strong arms under my knees and against my shoulders. 

“I didn’t think you were going to save me.” I said, my voice barely a choked out whisper. For a moment, I feared I had only thought it to myself.

“And yet, here we are.” Geralt said, with no tankard to hide his smile behind.


End file.
